Expectations
by connorfemway
Summary: The parent has their expectations set too low. The child has their expectations set too high. It's never a good thing to form expectations before meeting face-to-face. Fem!Connor


"How did your first meeting with your father go? Also, did he already know you were a girl, if not, how did he find out?"

A short-story reply to an ask on the ask blog** connorfemway** on tumblr.

Enjoy.

* * *

The air, idle with the winter, does not feel right today.

At least from where she stands now it does not feel right.

Shin-deep in the snow, tomahawk drawn and poised at the ready, Connor stares into the empty abandoned church.

He couldn't be in there. There was no way Benjamin Church was still there. Connor got the distinct feeling that there was _something_ in there, though. Perhaps a clue about his whereabouts, or a straggler left behind sleeping around the corner that she might interrogate?

There was no way the Assassin _couldn't_ examine the surroundings. Washington had pointed her in this direction. After their long talk, Connor felt determined to do well by the general. If their Commander in Chief doubted himself then their Revolution would be done no good. She only hoped to bring back something positive for the man so that he might return to his senses.

It is with this mindset that Connor forces her right foot up out of the snow to plunge it forward, unoccupied hand tugging the hood of her Assassin's garb down lower over her face. Her cheeks are flushed with the chill of winter.

Footsteps are slow and meticulous. Her gait is tense. There are no clues, by the looks of it. No stragglers. Nothing left behind that is within the reach of her sharpened eye. A few more steps lead her to the middle of the church. Many of the windows have been broken out. Pews are missing. The only thing that remains is the large stained-glass window at the front of the church, depicting a religious figure that Connor knows nothing of.

This place is not empty. A deep intake of breath tells her this. There is a scent in the chilled air. Someone is here, someone has been here. For a moment she finds herself frozen in place with a light breeze passing through the broken windows. It plays curiously with the bottom tips of her overcoat. It dances across her cheeks and parted lips.

She finds herself listening intently to the nothingness, too determined in thinking that there is something there to be found.

And there is.

A faint creak echoes from above, causing the Assassin to whirl around and turn her head up. She is too late.

A crashing weight lands on top of her, pinning her to the cold, snow-dusted floor of the church. In her surprise she mixes a gasp and a yelp, stars flashing before her eyes as the back of her head connects with the hard wooden floor. When her vision realigns, she recognizes the man who has landed on top of her. The man who holds the unsheathed hidden blade up near his own head. Poised to strike.

"Father," she breathes the word, a growl permeating her voice.

"Any last words, Connor?" Haytham seems overconfident, his cocky tone expressing this to a tee. This voice was not the voice she expected her father to have.

"Wait!" she says quickly, unsure of what else to say to halt his blade. This, of course, is futile.

"A poor choice," he says, tips his head to the side, stabs his blade hand at her with speed she can barely keep up with.

The Assassin cranes her neck far to the side, Haytham's blade digging into the wood. It splinters by her ear. It is far too close for a comfort, leaving the woman with a scratch along her left cheek. Without bothering to utilize her own hidden blade, she throws a punch in the moment he is taken off guard by her dodge. It connects with his jaw, sending a spike of pain through her knuckles. Seeing as how this doesn't move him completely, she jerks her knees as far up towards her chin as she can and uses her feet to kick him off of her. A moment later she's staggering to her feet, ears ringing. Just as quickly Haytham is standing, his hand wrapped around his jaw. His lip bleeds, the thick red liquid dribbling down his chin.

"I had not expected that to hurt as much as it did," he spits some blood on the ground as he removes his hand. They've fallen into pace circling each other, and it is now that Connor's own hidden blade is drawn and poised at the ready. Her eyes rove over his stance. "Perhaps your achievements have not been solely based on luck after all. That makes you only slightly less useless to me."

"Luck? Useless?" Connor questions, feeling a prickling sensation run up her spine beneath her Assassin's garb. What kinds of words were these? It was as though he was trying to get a rouse out of her, "If I am so useless, then how do you explain the Templar plans I have foiled, or your allies that I have killed? You would blame that on luck?"

"It is these things that makes you useless to me," Haytham spits blood again, flexing his jaw to both sides. A dull pop-crack echoes from somewhere inside his skull and he does not appear pleased. "All you are is a burden. A burden who is unfortunate enough to have luck on_ her_ side."

The Assassin's brows pinch together. Their shoes scrape along the floor as they continue their slow circling. Connor was not sure if she should be surprised that he knew her former secret or not. Before she can change her expression, Haytham has seen it and scoffs at her. He is ready to leap on any opportunity to degrade her intelligence, achievements, _anything._

"What do you take me for? I am not so simple as to be fooled by a bit of binding and a hood," he eventually comes to stop near one of the open windows. Connor does the same, shifting her weight from one leg to the other in anticipation. They are a favorable distance apart still, but that does not aid in calming her nerves. On the outside she keeps her composure – her jaw is set and eyes narrowed. "I attended your failed hanging. I doubt anyone in these colonies believes you to be a male after _that_ show. Not that you were even doing a good job of acting before your big reveal..."

"What do you want?" the Assassin cuts in, tone biting. The small talk was only making her more nervous, something she doubted Haytham was doing on accident. The Grandmaster Templar raises an eyebrow in inquisition. "Have you come to check up on Church? To see if he has succeeded in stealing enough Patriot rations for your British brothers?"

"...I had expected a degree of naiveté, but _this..._" Haytham's eye roll is far more dramatic than most people could get away with, but the Templar seems to have these subtle skills mastered to a tee. As though he's done this all his life. He takes to crossing his arms behind his back, outwardly growing impatient. "We _do not_ fight for the King. And Benjamin Church is no friend of mine."

Connor's eyes narrow further. Unconsciously, her blade hand that is poised at the ready lowers a bit. Another breeze passes them by as the Assassin digests these words - the cold of winter prickling her skin. The throbbing in her head has begun to subside.

"Is Church not a Templar? What lies do you try to spin?"

"Benjamin Church is a traitor to our cause. A lowly dog who abandoned us for his own personal gain. I am here to find him."

A deep sigh passes Connor's lips. Haytham's face is painted with disgust.

"We both seek the same man," the Templar continues, eying his daughter with eyes as sharp as her own. "I see we've finally reached common ground. Although I am not too _happy _about it."

Snow has begun to fall. Haytham's eyes follow after his daughter as she moves over to the remnants of a crate of rations and medicine. As she picks pieces up to sniff, the Templar's brows pinch together.

"I don't feel that your methods are all that... trustworthy," he adjusts his posture, rolling his shoulders backwards. An awkward tension floats in the air between them.

"They have done well for me thus far," she states with as little emotion as possible. The frustration and confusion and awkward tension of this moment were hard to push off. Focusing on the task with Haytham around would be nerve-wracking, to say the very least. The fact that she had even agreed to hunt Church alongside her Templar father was something that would certainly make Achilles roll if he were to ever find out. Already she begins to think that this choice is a mistake, noticing the way he watches her. Like a hawk.

This feeling only intensifies as they fall into silence, trekking through the snow one deep step at a time. Despite their common goal, there was nothing else they had in common so far - Connor is boggled by this. Some time ago she had been certain that this first walk at his side might be a pleasurable experience. A time where father and daughter might speak as who they really are. The scene had replayed itself over and over in all-too-hopeful dreams of hers. To have it come to partial fruition was… disappointing.

It is not at all what she'd expected it to be. The native had not ever imagined her father would act the way he does, say the things he does, be the way he is. Everything about him is not only intriguing, but also unbearably frustrating.

A part of her didn't even believe that this was Haytham Kenway.

"You said you were at my hanging," she probes, desperate to clear away the awkward silence that flows between them. Traveling in the snow is slow business, especially when Haytham doesn't feel the need to rush. Given too much time to think, Connor was sure she would mentally destroy herself by day's end.

"I had to make sure no mistakes were made," he clears his throat, tipping his swollen jaw up as he speaks. As though he must take on an air of superiority in her presence. "As it turns out, everything that could go wrong did go wrong. My presence did nothing to resolve this."

Haytham hides many secrets, the likes of which Connor could never guess.

"I assume you were quite disappointed," she speaks hollow words, all too curious for his reactions to them. It is the only entertainment around and only way she figures to communicate with her estranged father. Maybe she understands his curiosity in probing topics that might anger her.

"Quite the contrary," the Assassin pinches her brows together, turning her head to look at the father who walks only a pace ahead of her, "The results produced were not harmful, although Hickey's departure was a... disappointment. However, I felt his loyalties were not based in our cause, similarly to Church. His parting causes me no grief."

"Not harmful?" Connor shakes her head, "I had thought your goal was to have Washington and I killed."

"There are other ways to bypass Washington. As for you... What harm might you do while I have you in my sights?" he gives her a sarcastic side-glance. The Assassin holds back words she fears might cause a stir, and instead evens her shadowed gaze at him. "The way I see it, this situation has turned out for the better. As I have said, you _are_ my daughter. Killing you would be a waste of good Kenway blood."

"I might recommend you not underestimate my abilities," she mutters, eyes landing on a man hunched near a broken wagon not far off the road. He is hip-deep in the snow, pounding his fist on a broken wheel.

"One must prove themselves before respect is earned. In your case, that standard is much higher. You've already made so many mistakes; I have little hope for your redemption." The Assassin's eyebrow twitches, jaw set hard in place. He was very good at poking her nerves, but how? "But you are young, so I should not give up complete hope, despite the impulse to do so."

No, Haytham was not the man she had expected to meet. She could only feel glad that her ultimate goal was not to impress him. If it had, she was sure it would be one of the hardest endeavors the world had ever known.

Within the grasp of winter's thick snowfall, the awkward walk shared by father and daughter ends. They separate by Haytham's seemingly brash order. Unable and unwilling to argue, Connor sets off through the snow, making a quicker pace than before without her father to drag her down.

There were so many things up in the air, Connor could feel herself breathing in the tension and insecurity of their uniting under the same goal.

Despite having always been curious about meeting him on neutral ground, the Assassin feels that their meeting is no blessing, but rather a curse. Even wishes that they hadn't met at all.

Because if they had not come to meet and unite, she believes that killing him would not someday be turned into an emotional endeavor.


End file.
